


Something In The Air

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 19:50:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2480363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in existence. It has a different aroma for each who smells it, reminding them of the things that they find most attractive. For Sherlock Holmes, it's the smell of new books, parchment and quill ink. Sherlock has only one question on his mind: what would it smell like to John Watson?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something In The Air

**Author's Note:**

> [originally on ff.net] 
> 
> This is the first work that I've published on here, so I hope you enjoy it! Just a short potterlock oneshot to fill a tumblr post (^▽^)  
> EDIT 30/12/14 omg 1k views!! Thank you so much guys <3

Fresh parchment. The earthy smell of a freshly waxed broom. The bitter-sweet taste of freshly brewed tea.

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes tightly, mentally blocking out invading emotions, filing each new thought away into its specified sub folder (labelled and evaluated twice over). Each new idea opened a new torrent of deductions, bringing to light problems and discoveries that the Slytherin recorded with utmost precision and dedication. They all had one thing in common, though - John Watson: the small, well-built Beater from Gryffindor, smart and funny, his golden hair fine as silk; the way his broad shoulders heaved as he laughed, no, giggled; the way he walked, the way his voice rose and fell in anger or in anguish and the general acceptance from our young detective that he was God-damn infuriating. Always in his head: even in his dreams – the ghost of an unspoken conversation in the Owlery, a shared glance over breakfast, pouring over books in the library, arms brushing a little more than would be normal…the soft brush of his lips, the way his hair felt as it filtered through each of Sherlock's fingers and- Sherlock gritted his teeth, a sharp intake of breath cutting through the silent classroom which earned him a few curious glances and a small amount of derisive tittering from surrounding students. He shot them a steady glare; triumph blossomed in his chest as each one looked away swiftly, turning back to their tasks. He returned to his book, long fingers trailing over the battered and defaced list of ingredients, his cauldron bubbling quietly.

Potions, he thought, was a complete waste of time. What was the point of being good at something so akin to cooking? It was no more difficult than reading a book and following instructions, using what little intelligence you may have to measure some of this, stir in a small amount of that... why was it then, that someone like Sherlock Holmes found himself reveling in the knowledge each Monday morning that today was double Potions? Because it was with the Gryffindors. And that meant John Watson. Scanning the classroom, his eyes shifted to Beater, watching him intently over the top of his steaming cauldron. His tie was askew, his shirt was crumpled and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows exposing strong muscles and delicate hands, which thumbed the pages of his book insistently. He was frowning in concentration, tongue just peeping out from between his teeth, and it was all Sherlock could do not to leap over the desk and occupy that mouth with something else to do. He restrained himself, however, and settled for an impatient ruffle of his hair.

Pressing his lips into a thin line, his mind turned back to the task at hand: Amortentia. The strongest love potion in the world, but uniquely tailored to each person's desires and attractions. For Sherlock, it was the smell of new books, quill ink and the unforgettable aroma of a certain Gryffindor's aftershave. They were brewing it now, under extremely supervised conditions; Sherlock couldn't care less that his potion was the wrong shade of pink. He couldn't care less that the smell was more…pungent than the typical rose water scent. He couldn't care less that one whiff of the fumes it was emitting made you choke, splutter and sneeze your way 4 foot from your desk. The only question on Sherlock's mind at that moment was this - what would it smell like to John Watson? And it was a question that was fast becoming something of mystery to Sherlock – and something of an obsession. He had next to no data to work with, no existing trends from previous experiments, no clues or hints that gave him any leads at all. All he had was a deep desire for the knowledge and a slightly worrying amount of affection growing within him. It was strange, how one person could make you feel this way, Sherlock mused, dropping 3 butterfly wings into his pestle and mortar.

Sentiment -it was not something Sherlock was familiar with. Save for the undying love Sherlock held for a new set of test tubes, or a brand new case fresh from the Aurors office (Mycroft had pulled a few strings, and it kept Sherlock occupied) there was nothing in the world the young Slytherin thought he would ever become so…attached to. Now, however, he was feeling more than curious. So, what would it be, for John Watson? Honeyduke's finest chocolate, rich and sickly sweet? Or, perhaps, the smell of freshly laundered clothes folded neatly by silent house elves? Maybe the overpowering aroma of the common room fireplace, warm and smelling of home and comfort.

Yet again, the results were inconclusive. He threw his ingredients to the side, huffing and muttering under his breath as he took a step towards the store cupboard, eyes downcast and brow furrowed – he needed more rose thorns. As he rifled through the boxes, a voice in the back of his head whispered snidely at him. Coward it said, You've never even spoken to him. You're a Slytherin, Sherlock - It could never work… Sherlock wasn't sure what 'It' was, but his mind was racing and he could feel his judgement clouding. He couldn't let himself get distracted. It was NEWT year, and he needed all his concentration on his studies. But the voice was right. Sherlock had never spoken to him. He'd never had the courage - or the opportunity. What about now, though? Everyone's busy…no one's paying attention… Who would even care? Sherlock shook his head frantically, and stumbled back to his desk. Before he could reach it, though, he crashed into a student heading in the same direction.

"Watch it." The boy hissed, snake-like features pressed up close to Sherlock's. The detective, mumbling a muffled apology, tried to pull away. Jim Moriarty grabbed at Sherlock's collar, shoving him up against the nearest desk.

"I didn't hear you, freak," he said voice loud enough to revert all attention to them. The sounds of chopping and crushing stopped and Sherlock felt the eyes of 14 students burning into the back of his head. "Say it again." Sherlock gritted his teeth, cheeks flushing, and he glanced around for any signs of authority – no such luck, however, as both teachers seemed to have better things to do…

"I said watch where you're going. Better?" His stomach did a flip as Moriarty's eyes narrowed at his words, a vein in his temple twitching.

"You little-" Before any threat or insult could come, someone grabbed the collar of Moriarty's robes, yanking him backwards, and causing Sherlock to start in shock.

"Lay off him, Jim." Sherlock's ears burned at the sound of John's deep voice, and he stepped backwards rapidly - only to knock into a badly-placed stool and falling flat on his behind. They weren't watching him, however, and the two were locked in a silent stare-off. Moriarty glared at John but made no further move at Sherlock, eyeing the Quidditch team badge that was pinned to the Beater's robes. His eyes shifted to Sherlock for a moment, all rage, barely contained fury and undertones of embarrassment, before moving back towards his desk, seething silently.

"You okay?" the Gryffindor asked, holding a hand out to Sherlock who was still frozen on the floor. He reached out to take it and John pulled the Slytherin to his feet with ease. Cheeks bright red and robes off kilter, Sherlock nodded mutely before quickly releasing John's hand and brushing himself off.

"Um, thank you." He muttered quietly, aware of the deathly silence that had descended over the room. "For, uh, that thing you did." He finished lamely, and offered John a small smile. The Beater grinned back, watching the tall, lanky boy as his hands went straight to his unruly curls and ran through them incessantly.

"No problem." He replied. He took a step back and gestured to Sherlock's desk, smiling crookedly. "I think your potion's in need of attention." Sherlock turned to look, wincing as he saw the dark smoke curling out of it. A dense, acrid fog had descended over his cauldron and he sighed as he mentally prepared himself for the detention that would be coming his way. But Sherlock relaxed, an easy smile floating to his lips.

"I never was very good at love potions," he said, smiling ruefully. John laughed and held out his hand, looking at Sherlock expectantly. After a moment's hesitation, the Slytherin took it and shook firmly. "I'm John," the shorter boy said.

"I know," the other replied, almost without thinking, and the colour flooded back to his cheeks. "I mean, I've seen you around. Playing Quidditch." He amended, dropping his palm to his side hastily. Stupid, he told himself, now you sound like an idiot. John, however, just grinned happily.

"Are you going to the match tonight?" Sherlock hesitated. He only ever went if John was playing.

"Probably not," Sherlock replied, glancing at Moriarty as he lent over his cauldron shooting them glances every few seconds. "I usually study in the evenings." He trailed off into an awkward silence, and gave John a small shrug. "I don't know why I'm telling you this." he finished, shaking his head slightly. "Look, I better get back-" he waved his hand in the direction of his potion and stepped back.

"Sure, of course," John replied, mirroring Sherlock's retreat. "Uh, I guess I'll see you around, then?"

"Hopefully," Sherlock smiled, heart beating double time as he watched a small grin grow on John's face. The Beater turned and walked away, a small bounce in his step and Sherlock's eyes followed his movements. After a moment, he returned to his seat and stared happily into his cauldron. He was no closer to discovering the scents of Amortentia to this strange, perfect boy and for once, Sherlock was fine with that. He filed away the evidence, saving it for a later day before thinking twice and renaming the folder, two words that held promise and mystery – John Watson. Humming quietly to himself, he stirred at his potion, relishing in the butterflies that churned in his stomach. This was his new interest: forget mass murderers, illegal black market trading down Knockturn Alley, thieves in Ravenclaw common room or NEWTs to study for. All that seemed meaningless now, forgotten as quickly as John had come into his life. This was his new obsession - case closed.


End file.
